


Altar

by fragilelittleteacup



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Beautiful Will, Devotion, M/M, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Violence, this fic is just really really gorgeous and aesthetically pleasing sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 02:03:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7958095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal worships Will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altar

Will was lying on his back, eyelids quivering every few seconds as his mind staggered between blackout and consciousness. His lips, bitten and sucked, had turned the same red as the inside of his mouth. His skin, often pale and drawn-out, was now a healthy light brown; his cheeks were pink, an intoxicated blush blooming on his cheeks. It was the blush of the drunks and the lovers and the sinners; of the more delicious ones, with their bodies and their moans, their succumbing compliance with carnal desire- the painted men and women of the renaissance, with white bodies that were perfect and twisted, kneeled before the heavens and writhing under the gods. The submissive ones, the ones who bowed to it, with their pulled expressions and their desperate faces; frozen forever in oil paint.

Will’s chest rose with a breath.

The oil painting came to life.

As if sensing him, Will’s body gave a jolt, his fingers flinching to weakly grip the sheets that were strewn around him. His face turned, head yanking sidewards. The movement was indicative of violence, of movement; of the moment between a decision and determination when Hannibal’s hands had- time after time- cupped around a nameless forehead and a nameless neck, twisting in opposite directions.

Will gasped, as they had not been able to. He took a breath, a pull of life tugged between soft flesh, and Hannibal was there, his fingers against lips.

An exhalation. His name, blurred by Will’s clumsy tongue. Hannibal wanted to reach inside that cavernous, tempting opening into Will, feel the sharp points of canines in his skin as he grasped Will’s tongue. Watch him gag. His body writhe. _‘’Hanni’al- n- no,’_ he would choke, _‘’Hanni’al…!’_

“Hannibal…” Will’s eyes focussed, unfocussed, closed. It was as if his sight was a wire, pulling taut and then loose. His attention, fading and fixing.

“Yes, Will.”

“’M… tired…” He curled onto his side, and Hannibal was distracted by a soft, round shoulder. His eyes roamed, and he was hungry again. How he needed to feast- and not off a plate, not from a wine glass, not from a bowl using the finest silver crockery and tablecloths of silk. He needed to feast from Will’s mouth; taste his moans, gorge on his pleas, stuff greedily down his throat the intensity of the younger man’s drugged gaze when he was being fucked so hard he forgot his own name and what it meant- he needed to taste the sweat of the man who forgets he is Will Graham, who forgets his mind and the vivid colours, who forgets the darkest corner of his heart that is full of moonlit bodies and figures lying dead on staircases.

He wanted to feast.

“If you are tired, then sleep.” Hannibal’s fingers brushed at a sway of chocolate hair that was invading Will’s face. His fingers danced to Will’s neck, slowly; the waltz, to the serenade of a thousand whispered screams. Will gave a small sigh, his beautiful eyes closed.

“C’mere.” He mumbled.

 

 

 

 

This bed was their altar.

Hannibal’s hands were planted on it, fingers spread, clawed into the mattress to keep steady as he moved. Will’s back was writhing on it, his body jerked and swayed by their desperation, his head thrown back as if he were pulled from a renaissance painting; an angel on a stone slap, elevated to godly sin. Swathed in the love of humanity, the warmth of sheets, pervaded by the adoration of their worship. His hair was soft, curled, eyes half-lidded and mouth open- he could’ve modelled for the old masters, undressed, stood on a marble floor. They would want him pale, sheepish, with pink cheeks. They would study him for hours. His long eyelashes. His soft hair; they would touch it, fleetingly, intoxicated by the embodiment of their brushstrokes. The kinks, the curls, the _shapes_ of his hair. It was all so _perfect._ They would wonder whether they were dreaming, and this being had been conjured from their brushes. His pleasant face would outshine the young girls’, and the painters would prefer his ribs to breasts and curves. They would make him pose, adjust him; lift his hands, with feather-light touch, afraid to damage this masterpiece. His eyes would dance, shy, and they would fall in love. All art would pale against him. All lovers would fade. The aristocrats would sigh.

_And he’s mine._

The paintings would not do him justice. The artists would tear up their work and seek out the man they had failed to capture on their canvases- they wouldn’t be able to find him. He would be safe. He would be hidden.

_With me._

They would search all the lands. They would cross the seven seas in search of the angel that had stood before them. They would draw knives across throats like brushes across canvases until they found him. But they never would. Because he had never belonged to them.

_Mine._

“Tell me.” His words were harsh, breathless.

“I’m yours.” Will was more alive now than ever. He cried, like a heart breaking, like a god laughing in joy, like the euphoric angels. “I’m yours.”

“Yes.”

“I’m- I’m-”

“Yes. _Yes.”_

“Hann- Hannibal…!”

“You’re mine.” His angel. “You’re mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
